Dark eyes pierced her, bringing a flush to her cheeks as Tate wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin she'd provided for his use. "What happened?"
She evaded his gaze. "I'll handle it. The boys played in the strawstack this morning. I think I can take care of it, if Pete will help me."
"Pete?"
His father's look was stern, and Pete hunched his small shoulders, his fork held midair, laden with potatoes.
"We climbed the mountain, Pa," Timmy said brightly.
"And made holes in the straw?"
Pete nodded. "Yessir."
Tate took another bite of meat, chewing it forcefully. He swallowed and reached for his coffee. "I'll take care of it, Johanna. The boys know better than to play in the barnyard."
"Let me tend to it," she said quietly, aware that his temper had been riled.
"My boys made the problem. I'll clean it up."
Johanna folded her hands in her lap. Somehow she'd gone from being the bearer of bad news to the defender of the culprits. "I should have been watching them, Tate. They're my responsibility."
Pete shrank against the back of the chair, his dinner halfeaten, his eyes fearful as he listened to the two grown-ups.
"Is there canvas in the barn?" Tate speared the last piece of liver from the platter, carrying it to his plate.
"I'll have to look. Pa used to have some out there. Things got a bit unsettled over the past year or so. I may have to dig around for it."
"Unsettled?" Tate's eyebrows lifted, as if he disputed the word she had chosen to describe the state of her father's storage areas.
Johanna rose from the table, casting one glance at Pete, nodding at his plate in silent admonition.
Obediently he bent forward, fork in hand, and delivered a bite of food to his mouth.
"You'll help with the work, Pete. You too, Timmy," Tate announced. "I think we'd all better put our hand to it, in fact It looked like a pile of clouds coming in from the west earlier. We can't afford to lose that straw."
"I thought we were going to have a real storm." Johanna looked toward the barn, across the yard where the thirsty ground was soaking up the showers as they fell to earth.
Tate nodded. "Look's like it's blowing over. Just as well, really. That hay we cut the other day is gonna need an extra day to dry before we bring it in."
"At least the straw … " She halted, aware that she'd managed to bring to his mind the very subject she'd been trying to avoid.
"I don't want you to pamper the boys."
"That sounds like an order." It was the first they'd spoken of the issue since the afternoon. Better to have it over with, let him have his say, she thought with a sigh of resignation.
He turned to look at her. "You'd have taken on the chore of cleaning up their mess this afternoon if I hadn't stepped in."
She nodded. "Probably. I'd already spouted off at them, Tate. I hurt Pete's feelings."
"They have to learn. Life isn't easy, and Pete tends to do as he pleases sometimes." He stepped back from the edge of the porch as a gust of wind blew the mist under the roof, dampening his shirt and pants. Leaning against the side of the house, he looked at her, barely able to make out her features in the light cast from the kitchen window.
"He misses his mother," Johanna said, uneasily awaiting his reaction.
Tate nodded. "Maybe. Or maybe he misses the idea of having a mother. Belinda wasn't one to cater to the boys. She left the mothering of them up to her sister, Bessie. Matter of fact, Belinda didn't enjoy much of anything about her life with me."
"She didn't like living on a farm?"
"No." He drew in a deep breath and rested his head against the bare siding of the house. "She was a city girl. Somehow I had the notion of making a farmer's wife out of her. Should have known better, I suppose. Her sister lived in town, and Belinda never got over resenting the fact that Bessie had neighbors around her and a store right down the road."
"Did you ever consider moving to town with her?" Johanna asked. She watched as Tate shoved his hands deep in his pockets, slouching a bit against the cool air, his shoulders lifting in a silent reply.
"Not really. I was born and raised on the place. It's all I knew." He looked at her in the dim light. "After we were married, I thought she'd come to like our life there. We had things pretty nice. I bought her a new stove and kitchen cabinets and had the water piped into the house."
"Do you miss her?" It was a brazen query, and she spoke it firmly, as if the issue were important to her. And she knew suddenly that it was. She couldn't bear it if Tate Montgomery was yearning for his first wife while he lived with the second one. If he thought of Belinda while he looked at Johanna … If he remembered his times with Belinda when he went to bed across the hall at night …
"Do I miss her?" He shook his head. "It was pretty bad between us, especially at the end." His hand slid from his pocket, rising to rest against the side of his face, his fingers tracing the scar on his cheekbone. As if it ached, he rubbed the raised tissue, his eyes narrowed, his lips tightly closed.
"What happened, Tate? How did you get the scar?"
His fingers left the ridged blemish, almost reluctantly, his hand clenching as it hung at his side. "An accident with a knife."
Johanna's foot stopped its movement, and the rocker stood still. "You cut yourself?" She squinted up at him.
He shook his head, then, glancing down, took in her hunched shoulders and the fingers clutching her shawl. "You're cold, Johanna. We need to go in the house." He held out his hand to her and waited.
Her eyes lingered on his face, then moved to where his outstretched palm offered her his warmth. "Yes, I'm chilled from the wind," she agreed, allowing him to tug her from the chair. Beneath her fingers, the calluses he bore brushed against her skin, setting up a fine, tingling heat that invaded her flesh. She arose, aware of him as never before, and searched the shadows that hid his eyes.
His grip was firm, drawing her to where he stood. Turning, he sheltered her with his body against the wind as he opened the kitchen door. Then, inside the house, he kept her close, reaching behind himself to draw the latch.
"I think I need to go up to bed," Johanna said, her voice a whisper in the silence of the room. She tugged to free her hand, caught in the embrace of his fingers, but he would not allow her to escape so easily.
"Tate?" Risking a glance at his face once more, she was captured by the sober look of him, the straight line of his mouth, the taut clenching of his jaw, the piercing regard of his gaze.
For a moment, he watched her, as if he were weighing his words. And when they came, it was as if they were torn from him, raw and rasping in the silence of the room. "I don't miss Belinda, Johanna. I didn't love her for a long time before she died." His fingers squeezed hers in a painful grip. "I haven't made love to a woman in years." Tate's voice was low, and his words were harsh in their honesty, as he lifted her hand to rest against his chest
She tugged at his grip, her heart beating rapidly, her breathing audible as she drew in air with a shuddering gasp. "I don't want to hear this," she whispered harshly. "I don't want to know about the women in your life, Tate Montgomery!"
"You asked if I miss her, and I told you."
"You told me more than I wanted to know," she said, her eyes flashing her distress as she stepped back from him.
"Are you afraid of me, Johanna?" His words were soft, taunting, and as inflexible as his stance.
Once more she tried to free her hand, wincing at the careful pressure he exerted. It was no use, she decided, relaxing her grip, aware that she would not be released until he allowed her her freedom.
She closed her eyes. "Afraid? Until this moment, no, I've not feared you. Now … " She shook her head.
His lips twisted in a smile that held no trace of humor. "And now? I can't believe I frighten you. Have there been no other men in your life, Johanna Montgomery?" he asked, in a parody of her own words.
She felt the blood leave her cheeks, sensed a surging of shame through her flesh. Her eyes opened, and she shook her head. "Please, let me go, Tate. You've no right."
His grip softened, and then his hands moved, sliding behind her back and drawing her against him. "Oh, but I have, Mrs. Montgomery. I have every right. You're my wife, remember?"